When you hit that 70th birthday, and for some it starts even before, your body parts hold a convention. All the parts that had been functioning nicely and fairly independently of each other for all these decades suddenly feel the need to support each other. So now when your head hurts, your knees join in. When you have a touch of heartburn, your intestinal track backs up the heartburn.
As a teenager that golden tan I worked so hard on, now breaks apart into spots of brown in decade number seven which leads me to my current state. I had noticed a tiny brown spot on my facethis morning when I had climbed on top of the bathroom counter to get close enough to the mirror so I could see to put on my make-up. See how the eyes are joining forces with my skin? Eyes and skin then sent an urgent message to my brain which was "UGLY! DERMATOLOGIST!! NOW!" I immediately called and made an appointment with my dermatologist.
With age I have gained a measure of coping skills when it comes to sitting in a doctors' office. I now bring some kind of meaningful work to fill the time while I am waiting, you know like folding laundry, soap carving, candle making, tanning hydes. I have noticed I don't have to wait as long. Rather quickly, I was called to the examination room.
I knew I was in trouble when the doctor came in singing the score from "Frozen" wielding her liquid nitrogen gun. Before I could throw up the deer hyde as a defense, she zapped the tiny brown spot under my eye, the four brown spots on my left cheek, the six on the right cheek, and for no apparent reason other than she was in the middle of "Let It Go", seventeen brown places on both my arms. I'm just glad I was wearing long pants and a high necked shirt and the song did not have any more verses.
By the time I got home I was feeling like a dog shot with rock salt. A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked like a dog...a Dalmatian.
Even I didn't want any supper after that. Sorry ladies, another time.
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